


No Mean Thing

by AnnaBolena



Series: Titles With Meaning In Them [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Because he's A Lad From a Good Family, Class Issues Edward Has Never Thought of In His Life, Early 1846, M/M, Pre-Canon, Victorian Intimacy reaches new heights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25090093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: “You ought to get some rest, Mister Jopson.”He really is not sure what Lieutenant Little wants from him, if it is not this: a hand shoved down each other’s trousers or a body prone for taking, bent over a desk or a cupboard. That is generally what a man like him seeks in a man like Thomas.“I’ve work to do yet,” he returns, softly.a.k.a. Early in 1846, Thomas Jopson falls in love despite his better judgement.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Series: Titles With Meaning In Them [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803049
Comments: 23
Kudos: 76





	No Mean Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I read a post recently about how these two would bicker 24/7 if it weren't for Jopson's decorum and hesitation to give an officer backtalk, and while I can imagine that in early 1846 they're just very very smitten with one another, once The Crisis hits, I definitely agree, tensions will rise sky high. So we'll see if I get around to writing that, eh?

There is something calming about the routine of polishing silver, Thomas Jopson has always held. It is a skill so practised that his mind might drift anywhere in the process of working away at it. He does not allow fanciful excursions during other tasks, where someone might happen upon him, catch him out in them and press for details, for it does not do to appear absent-minded in front of either superiors or any other men aboard, but he is not often disturbed whilst in the great cabin except by Neptune, especially not at such an hour – they’ve all gone to bed, now, the wardroom officers, and he’s seen to Captain Crozier, besides.

Billy has turned in for the night, and his slothful retreat to his berth is a signal of sorts – for Thomas, if not for those less dedicated– to do what needs doing yet, so that breakfast will be just as smooth sailing as they will find once they leave Beechey.

(That cannot be long ahead, now– Mister Blanky has begun to stare most determinedly at the horizon, puffing on his pipe almost distractedly instead of savouring the tobacco as he is wont to.)

Head turned with such distractions, Thomas hardly takes note of company arriving – not until two firm hands bracket his hips, not until he feels a warm exhalation of air against his neck. There is a most delicious pressure to accompany the warmth that comes from feeling another human being mold themselves against your back, as though attempting to make one of two. Thomas welcomes it.

Still, he startles a fair bit when a soft kiss is dropped on the crown of his head, before a chin settles there, making a fine silk pillow of his hair. Strong arms draw him fully into an embrace, looping around his smaller frame with ease. The man towers over him, Thomas sighs over it, seeking comfort readily. He had expected – anticipated, craved – wandering hands, following some invisible map to his Southern pole, no-nonsense as the rest of him. This is not that, but it does well in its place, even as the tenderness comes as something foreign – who is Thomas to run from the strange? Another kiss, this one smacks; a deep inhale follows. The last person to kiss him thus, who was it? Perhaps his mother, Thomas considers, tucking him in at night, when he was but a boy, long before she turned to the laudanum – nothing but a memory, now, and a hazy one at that, one that will not crystallize after the years have worn away at it, but it comes to his mind from some dark trove in its depths, where he must have kept it locked up tight.

This serves Thomas well, indeed. How he has longed for this!

“Don’t let me keep you from your work too long, Mister Jopson,” urges Lieutenant Little, his voice gone rough in softness, raspy for being unused to speaking in such tender tones.

“Your lips are rather warm for having just stood watch,” Thomas answers, evasively. Yes, there is much to be done, but nothing that he cannot do once the lieutenant’s affectionate mood has run its course. It is something of a surprise, anyway, that he should beset Thomas so, for he cannot recall much of any contact in the weeks since Thomas made it plain he should like nothing better than to be had, yeah, a brush of hands, here and there, if either could spare it: they’ve had that and many looks besides. Lieutenant Little remains at heart a cautious man – of course he should steal into his company only in the dead of the night. It is most convenient, even, that the lieutenant has some excuse at the ready, should someone else have been here or happen upon them. A cup of tea to warm his bones after watch – it is often done, any other officer would have, no fault of Little’s that the steward happens to be at it, yet. Certainly this is less likely to arouse suspicion than if Thomas were to be found in his cabin, where he’s thought of sneaking around after he wakes desperate for a hand on him only to find Little resigned to watching, and watching some more. Some nights, he imagines Little bold enough to come to him in the night, risk be damned. If he were bolder—

(If Lieutenant Little were a bolder man, Thomas thinks he would not be in his arms, would instead be bent over the silverware, grasping at it desperately. When he turns that over in his head, he is glad for caution, even if he cannot pretend to possess ample patience for it. He is wound too tight, does not care much for a waiting game, longs for gratification, desperately.)

Since he’s taking liberties now, it follows that the lieutenant racked his mind in the attempt of engineering such a clandestine meeting at an opportune time; that he has waited patiently for his turn at first watch. Had he stood on deck, giddy with the thought of finding Jopson at his duties and relieving him of them for a while? Earlier, when Mister Hornby came down, fresh off his own watch, to ask Jopson to send one of the boys up with some biscuits for poor Lieutenant Little, who could not take dinner on account of being rather occupied in the hold, overseeing Mister Honey’s reparations of some vermin-caused damage – had Little meant that request to inform Thomas of his intent of a later visit? 

Ordinarily, Thomas might say he has a good grasp on how the minds of men like Edward Little work, but when it comes to the man himself rather than men like him, Thomas is often puzzled.

(For the man had watched him hungrily for weeks, but had retreated like a skittish colt when Thomas reciprocated. For the man had drawn him against his chest, had confessed to wanting him, but has done nothing about it, even if it should turn out to be only infinite patience which stays his hand rather than skittishness. For the man now has him in his arms, but still his hands do not make for the poles, and, positioned as they are, Thomas can hardly make a break for the lieutenant’s snowy little mountain of his own volition, the angle would be most ungainly, and he does not like to go in blind, does not like to appear clumsy when he is in truth an old hand at giving his hand. He takes as much pride in these services as he does in his more official capacity on board.)

“I had a pipe before I came to you,” Little reveals, fingertips splaying wide over Thomas’ waistcoat. The sensation is lovely, but a far cry from the wandering hands Thomas imagined might beset him. “You would keel over from shock were I to put lips to your skin that had not taken some pains to acclimatize to the temperature below deck.”

“Perhaps,” Thomas agrees. Even as Little has put no lips to his skin as of yet, he is glad to hear the man declare something akin to intent. “I ought to demonstrate my gratitude for your foresight, Sir.”

“It hardly merits that,” Little protests, breathing deeply. “Simply allow me this a while longer.”

“However long you like,” Thomas grants, no small amount of confusion – what has Little come down for, if not--

“That should certainly keep us from our respective duties,” Little chuckles. Soft lips drop to his neck, the brief contact is tantalizing; then Little withdraws, coming around instead to lean against the cupboard where all that needs polishing yet is gathered. “Let me look at you,” he requests, reaching a careful hand to cup Thomas’ cheek.

What is the lieutenant after, if he has not come to see to their pleasures? Can he be content with this, or does he yet carry the doubts that froze him into inaction these past months? Can he fear that Thomas might be debased by his secret fantasies – for he must have them, Thomas thinks, else he would not look at him so. There is a promise in his eyes, one Thomas has tried to mirror where he would usually be more guarded, so as to induce the man to do _something_.

“You ought to get some rest, Mister Jopson.”

He really is not sure what Lieutenant Little wants from him, if it is not this: a hand shoved down each other’s trousers or a body prone for taking, bent over a desk or a cupboard. That is generally what a man like him seeks in a man like Thomas.

“I’ve work to do yet,” he returns, softly.

Little’s gaze turns thoughtful.

“Ought I to leave you to it, then?” He looks about ready to leave, so Thomas hastily covers the hand on his cheek with his own, making an anchor of it.

So he’s not come here at all for a quick fix, merely passing through, but reluctant to leave nonetheless. Thomas tells himself not to be too flattered by the man’s earnest attention, if it is that, but flattered he is, and aflutter is his heart.

What a strange man Lieutenant Little is.

“You needn’t,” Thomas whispers. If he wishes to stay, let him! Little cocks his head at Thomas, rather resembling Neptune, when presented with some tasty morsel by the one of the men. “Perhaps—perhaps you’d like to treat me to a story, whilst I work?”

For he does have work to do, a fair bit of it, much as he would like to suggest to the lieutenant that they might both retire to his cabin on the pretence of a missing button or two, but he’s always keen to hear more of this handsome man, anything he offers up is kept close, hugged to his heart as treasured knowledge willingly imparted. Little’s mouth tugs upwards - only at the corner, mind – as he reaches for Thomas and pulls him close. Tucked against the great expanse of his chest – conspicuously brushed clear of the snowfall that must have gathered on the wool throughout his watch – Thomas thinks he might easily sleep for decades like some princess in a fairy tale someone told him as a child, even standing upright as he is. But Little reaches behind himself, hands Thomas a knife to polish, and begins talking.

“---I’ve a scar on my shoulder, it is rather prominent and would no doubt be cause for alarm to anyone who beheld it, but it is only the product of a most enthusiastic sister attempting to ride one of the stallions without a saddle…”

+

Sometimes, Thomas wonders what goes through Lieutenant Little’s mind during these endless dinners, where he contributes hardly anything to the conversation – even though, as Thomas has learned, his life is rife with stories only waiting to be shared, and after minimal prodding, too! – but instead listens patiently as each man spins tales of heroism that verge on the fantastical.

Captain Crozier certainly deems these stories as such. After these dinners, when he has had so much that Thomas needs to leverage him out of his boots, he makes no secret of this ire. It may very well be, Thomas considers, that this reticence is why Captain Crozier is so fond of his second; Lieutenant Edward Little knows to keep his mouth shut and is prompt at following orders - that is all any Captain could reasonably want, and Little has many fine qualities besides. Perhaps, under a different Captain – perhaps if Little were _Erebus_ ’ first Lieutenant rather than _Terror_ ’s, he would be of a different form, would regale more than Thomas with wild tales of a sister saved from errant hooves, or the festivities of Malta’s ports.

(But Thomas cannot wish it so, not when it means Little would be aboard a different ship, not when it would mean Thomas could only see him during these dinners – there is a chance, after all, that he would be as taciturn as he is now, even then. And besides, the lieutenant complied keenly with his demands of further stories, kept Thomas awake to finish his polishing, and doesn’t the silverware just gleam tonight?

He chides himself for these notions, these foolish, foolish notions.)

Just now, Little’s eyes meet his, across the table. He has been caught watching what he should not, but Little will pardon it, certainly he will. He makes an elegant sort of movement with his glass, one Thomas cannot mistake, that speaks of the fine upbringing Thomas knows he has had, that he does not mention so outright but that Thomas cannot pretend to be ignorant of whenever the man speaks to him in his fine, polished tone with words so well-chosen so as to say in one sentence what another man might say in three. Without delay, Thomas moves to refill his glass, spotless and gleaming after last night’s work. And if he’d polished more than strictly needed polishing, greedy for more time in Little’s embrace, greedy for the freer tone of his voice, greedy for everything, that is only his business, isn’t it? Little had held him all the while, now and then reaching back to hand Thomas a new piece, later tugging off his fine white glove with his teeth to touch Thomas skin on skin, soft caresses – and is it any wonder, then, that Thomas has these notions?

That he had gone to bed thinking of these soft, careful touches, that he had dreamt up a house by the sea and a bed to call their own? Can he be faulted for such notions, when acted upon by Little’s hands in such an unusual manner?

“Thank you, Jopson,” says Little, a small gesture of appreciation that Thomas would do well not to let go to his head. Still, a part of him preens, it does go to his head, no question about it, sweeter than honey cakes. It can hardly be considered a risk to thank him, but nonetheless it feels daring, the words imbued with a different meaning, given more significance than might be supposed, by lips which, only last night, were pressed to his neck, to his hair, behind his ear.

+

Little is reading on his berth. Divested of his coat, his cravat dangling loosely over his shoulders, he looks a fine sight to Thomas, who imagines he’d be quite happy watching him read, except for the part where he wouldn’t, because what this demonstrates is only that Thomas wants much more from him, more than he feels at leisure to demand, more than any fine man such as Lieutenant Little will be forthcoming to promise him, or any man they seek out on a cold and lonely arctic voyage.

“Mister Jopson,” Little greets him, evenly, setting the book to the side. “Something I can help you with?”

Thomas should think it rather obvious, but Little seems surprised – if happily so – to see him.

“Mister Gibson said there’s a shirt what needs mending, but he’s busy laundering the stains out of Lieutenant Hodgson’s uniform after the brandy disaster at dinner and I’ve naught to do at present, so I’ve come to see about fixing your cuff, Sir.”

“There’s really no need to call me Sir,” Little rises, slowly but with easy confidence, fishing in his trunk for the aforementioned garment, handing it to Jopson, but catching his hands in the process, bringing them up to his lips, supplicating kisses in place of gratitude.

The presence of the shirt confounds Jopson – they’d agreed on this ruse, they had, but now Little truly has a shirt that needs mending, and perhaps he did truly mean for Billy to mend it, perhaps Jopson mistook it for an invitation when it wasn’t, assured Billy he’d required nothing more from him.

(Or else the man is very thorough, prepared for the off-chance that Billy would feel up to putting in more work than strictly necessary on any given night.)

“What shall I call you, then?”

“Whatever you like,” Little suggests, a twinkle in his eye.

Thomas would dearly like to call him _beloved_ , but he has some notions of how these things go, and such declarations are not made, even if Little has been tender with him like no other.

(He’d not expected for Little to induce these tender feelings in his breast, when he first caught the man looking, sniffing about for a treat. Thomas had expected a quick tumble to sort things out, supposed that is what Little must have been angling for. But then Little had to go and endear himself to Thomas with his hesitance, the respectful manner in which he went about pursuing him, didn’t he? Then he had to mess it all up for Thomas, had to--)

“And if I should like to call you Sir?”

Something flashes in Little’s eyes, something that gives Thomas an inkling of the man’s desires, but he does nothing but hazard a cautious glance, keep an ear out for steps. _Terror_ is quiet, tonight.

Apparently satisfied with his reconnaissance, Little crowds Thomas against the door, hands firm on his hips. “I’ll have to persuade you to prefer another name, won’t I?”

It dawns on Thomas, then, as he angles towards Little, that the man has gone stiff in his pants. Much like on New Year’s Eve, he hesitates. But he has learned from his mistakes, does not make a questioning sound, chooses simply to act, pushing a hand against him. The shirt falls by the wayside, abandoned for worthier pursuits. Little’s hand shoots out to pause Thomas’ admittedly frantic movements, stilling him as he shivers, his voice hoarse: “May I call you Thomas?”

“Well, I hardly think you should call me Mister Jopson under such circumstances – that’s a memory bound to resurface in the wardroom when I least need it.”

Under his ministrations, the lieutenant comes to his crisis much quicker than Jopson might have anticipated, had he considered such trivial matters as duration of their exploits in his mind. (He had.) But it’s just as well, he concedes, time is of the essence, and Thomas had not been keen on drawing it out, strictly speaking, he’d gone about it with every trick he has up his sleeve. He needs to watch his own back as well as the lieutenant’s, no doubt about it, Little is thinking the same. Out of the frying pan into the fire, indeed, just because they’ve sorted out their desires does not mean they’ve an easier time ahead of them.

There is sweat on Thomas’ brow when Little leans to press kisses to it, the effort has cost them both something, but oh, how willingly spent!

When Little’s hand reaches into his own pants, Thomas welcomes it, until he grows dimly aware of footsteps, Hodgson returning from watch, most likely. He bats Little’s hand away, bids he listen after near wincing at the man’s confused eyes. The man stills, taut against Thomas. “When?” The question is pressed into his skin. As he looks at Little, the lieutenant’s eyes are wild with lust.

“Soon,” Thomas promises, gathering the shirt to be on his way.

+

He considers, as he watches Little stand by the cabin window, smoking his pipe whilst his thumb is wedged in between the pages of some biography, how the man might react, if Thomas were to go on tip toes and press his lips to the lieutenant’s whiskers, before making a path through the thicket of them to his lips.

(It doesn’t do to dwell on these fancies, but he closes his eyes and Little comes through the door of a home they call their own, smiling _give us a kiss_ and pulling Thomas close, chin propped on his head, speaking thoughtfully on the events of that day---)

Certainly Thomas cannot kiss him now, not when Lieutenant Irving is sermonizing at the lot of them, not when Lieutenant Hodgson and Mister Blanky are at cards, not when the rest of the officers are at their leisure, and even Captain Crozier is amongst them, eyes closed and hands folded over his belly, half-listening to Irving’s melodic tones, if the small frown on his face is anything to go by.

But later, once they have cleared the room, maybe. Lieutenant Little is often the last of them to leave – has been these past months, at least. Before then, he would flee at the first mention of music, but Lieutenant Hodgson seems recently to have tired of the tunes. In a month or so, no doubt his fondness will return, but in the interim, Thomas knows to be grateful, for it means he can look at Little throughout the evening, and catch a masterfully hidden glance or two directed at him in turn, if he is alert.

No, he certainly cannot kiss the man now, or look at him much – Misters Gibson and Genge are here, anyway, and those two are trained to be observant, as Thomas is. In their presence he must be extra careful.

Later, he promises himself.

He’ll have Little, if Little will have him.

+

The Lieutenant’s heavy brown eyes watch Thomas come back into the great cabin after he has seen to Captain Crozier, where only he and Lieutenant Irving remain, talking leisurely of an artist Thomas never heard of in his life, whether or not Edward thinks he compares to another artist he’s never heard of, and if Irving has heard of a third, and how he really should have a look at his works, and isn’t one of them displayed in Edinburgh – has Irving perhaps heard of a certain family? Irving has, indeed, their mothers are second cousins and as such they keep a correspondence, he’ll drop in, and thank you very much, _Edward_ \--

“Anything I can do for you, sirs?” He asks after a natural pause has come to this conversation that passes over his head, which ought to inspire but only frustrates.

Irving yawns, stretches his long limbs one after another, before pushing away from the table. “I’m off to bed for a few hours, Jopson. I’d thank you for putting out some biscuits when I’m to stand morning watch.”

“Consider it done, Sir,” Thomas nods.

Little, who has since migrated to one of the more comfortable chairs in the room, giving up his customary spot at the window, looks amused as Irving leaves the room in a hurry, always in a hurry.

“You’re rather eager to be rid of him, aren’t you, Mister Jopson?” He asks, setting down his book before raising his eyes to meet Thomas’.

“And if I am, Sir?”

“I cannot say I fault you for it.” Little plays along. “Though I am fond of John, his preaching can be tiresome at length.”

“That is hardly why,” Thomas scoffs, tidying up the table. “You know my reasons.”

“Do I?”

Everything is gathered neatly on a tray, so Thomas feels well within his rights to cross to where Little is sitting, and make a seat of his lap. Bold, yes, but certainly not inexcusable and perhaps even welcomed, is this act. Little’s hands come down upon him: one securely around his waist, the other almost carelessly weighty on his thigh, a big, gloved thumb rubbing soft circles against mended trousers.

“It seems everyone has gone to bed,” Thomas says, by and by. “Not keen to follow their example?”

“Not if it means you will be left without a seat,” Little murmurs, pressing a kiss to his temple. All Thomas would need to do is turn his head a few scant inches, forge ahead into waters unknown. He does not think the lieutenant would mind – perhaps he would enjoy it, even. His lips seek out all manner of skin he can attain, what difference would this make?

(It might make a world of difference to Thomas, who’s not savoured a kiss since poor Sarah said her goodbyes before they made for the Antarctic. He’d savour this one, more than he should, maybe.)

“Oh, dear me,” Thomas affects, “No, we couldn’t have that, Sir.”

Carefully, almost searchingly, Little’s hand migrates upwards, trailing along the inseam, where only a week ago Thomas darned a hole the rats made, but he does not think that is quite at the forefront of Little’s mind, at present, even as Thomas is painfully aware of it. Thomas spreads his legs, eyes trained on his lieutenant’s face, to judge his reactions. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, as his hand settles where Thomas wants it most. Little glances up at him: “Now, perhaps?”

“ _Please_ ,” Thomas nods.

+

Down in the hold, the laundry never dries as it is supposed to, but in the Captain’s storeroom, at least, Thomas need not fear the smell of burnt tobacco seeping into the linens as it would elsewhere, for only one man but him is allowed to come here, and he is no great smoker.

(It would not dry on deck either, he sighs regretfully to himself. The whole ship is wet, in a manner, most unpleasantly so.)

Such limitations are precisely why Thomas does not expect to be seized, but hands that have since grown familiar begin a curious trek downwards, as the door falls shut with a damning clang, if anyone cared to pay attention. He hopes they do not.

“Why, _Captain Crozier_ ,” Thomas teases, affecting a breathless tone that – given a few seconds more of such rubbing, will no longer be borne of affect, “Fancy finding you come down to check your own stores.”

The hands pause, hovering at his buttons.

Thomas supposes his joke might not have landed.

“I know it’s you, Lieutenant Little, Sir,” he assures him, swiftly. Little exhales like a bull.

“Then wha—“

“It was only a jest, Sir,” Thomas hastens to add. “You’re not allowed in here, as you well know.”

“I can leave,” suggests Little, nipping at Thomas’ ear, playful in deed as his words are solemn. “Perhaps you’d prefer the Captain, after all – I could fetch him for you.”

“Hold your tongue,” Thomas gasps, swatting at him with a cleaning rag. As he turns around, he watches Lieutenant Little settle against the door, arms crossed, appearing content to watch Thomas work in the time he’s got to spare.

This is unfamiliar terrain to Thomas, he supposes. Granted, he’s not had many liaisons aboard ship, but there’ve been some. He’s had nothing like this – those fleeting dalliances had been all hands shoved hastily in each other’s trousers, the occasional bend of the knees, if there was time for it, but always with the aim of quick release. And sure, Lieutenant Little has had him on his knees, if in quite a different manner than Jopson is used to (seated on Little’s knee, that is, with Little’s hand wrapped around him and Little’s eyes maddeningly hazy as they lingered on all of Thomas), but there’d been nothing else, afterwards. He’d pressed a tender kiss to Thomas’ neck, and bade him good night.

(And even then, Thomas huffs at the memory, he’d had to quite literally fall into Little’s lap before the man had done something about it, had spread his legs like some harlot before the lieutenant took it for enthusiasm.)

Now he looks as he does most nights, observing Thomas carefully, fondly, who cannot help but wonder if Little sees something dirty in the act, if he is of the sort who thinks such affection between men is all well and good as long as it does not venture into the depraved.

But his eyes – no, surely Little does not think that. Surely not!

“You were of a mind to do something, before my ill-timed joke, were you not?” Thomas asks, once he has returned the bottles of whiskey to their place on the shelves. His hand lingers, picking up dust. Lieutenant Little’s gaze is weighty, considering, but he nods.

Thomas takes some steps towards him, places his hands upon Little’s chest, begins to unbutton his coat for him, hands ever searching – for what, Thomas does not quite know. Perhaps for some switch to loosen the restraints which seem to bind him?

Little’s hands venture downwards, grasping Thomas firmly by the arse, pulling him close with a knee shoved between his thighs for good measure. So he does know what he’s about then, Thomas thinks. His movements are too practised, he’s too familiar with the proceedings of such arrangements to be this damned shy. He’s done this before; whether by land or by sea Thomas cannot tell, but he is grateful to find it out.

“What is it you want, Lieutenant?” Jopson asks, crowding closer, growing drunk on the heady warmth that spreads through his limbs as Little moves them. He would get a crick in his neck looking up at the man and so busies himself with loosening the cravat, seeking skin against skin even if he cannot reach high enough to bury his face in the lieutenant’s neck, against his whiskers.

Above him, Little exhales, shakily, his hands tighten against Thomas, press him closer. Thomas thinks he might forget to answer all together, but then Little speaks, voice rough and low: “One day I’d like your mouth, Tommy.”

_Tommy._ He hardly thinks Little noticed what slipped out, hardly thinks he is aware how tenderly Thomas’ name leaves his lips, what it does to Thomas’ chest.

(Gives a man hope, that does, undue hope of a future in a fine house, perhaps in a fine bed, waking up to being groped and being purely delighted instead of concerned about secrecy, keeping quiet, nothing to do all morning but partake, before seeing to his duties. It’s a foolish hope, yeah, but Little stokes it when his fingertips touch Thomas’ cheek like he is something to be treasured.)

“Could be today, if you like,” Thomas pants, losing his grip on the cultivated cadence he uses in front of officers and men alike as he spirals towards pleasure, “Save poor Mister Gibson the trouble of laundering questionable stains in your small things.”

“You needn’t feel obligated simply because I wished--” Little protests, but soon gives in to Thomas’ trailing kisses, tangling a hand in his hair on the downward descent. Eyes screwed shut and head thrown back against the wall, Thomas witnesses Little swiftly lose that restraint he has so often cursed. It falls from him like a loose bolt of silk, fine stuff, gathered at his feet where he can easily pick it up again, should he need to. One day, Thomas would like to see him bare, but this is naked enough at present, naked enough for their little arrangement, naked enough to keep his longing at bay, anchored at Beechey as surely as Terror.

When his eyes open again, Little looks at Thomas in wonder, extends a hand to him. “Come here,” he beckons, voice a far cry from the steady commands he issues on deck, it is pleading, desperate almost. Thomas has never heard the like, but he’d like to hear it more. 

“You needn’t feel obligated, Sir,” Thomas echoes, although he very much hopes Little will insist.

“I’ve told you to call me Edward,” sighs he, pulling Thomas upright and into a warm embrace – by Christ, how does he keep so warm? Perhaps these high brow gents just burn brighter than folks from Marylebone, but no – Thomas has had his share of men like Edward Little, this warmth never spilled over into their touch.

“But you haven’t,” Thomas answers, puzzled, as Little works him over expertly. His fingers clench in the fine fabric of his shirt, concerned about leaving wrinkles that will need ironing – someone will have to – someone will.

Little pauses, for but a short while, brows furrowed.

“Will you call me Edward?” He asks, finally, nosing at Thomas’ neck, peppering it with kisses.

“Yeah,” Thomas sighs as the tide comes rushing in, as the wave crests and breaks over his head.

Hopes stoked and duty fulfilled, Edward soon returns to his work.

+

“Do you ever try any of the stuff you serve us?” Edward wonders, perched on his spot by the window, book forgotten on his lap as he watches Thomas clear the table of brandy glasses and tea cups, two bells into Middle Watch.

“Wouldn’t do,” Thomas tuts, “It’s not my place to, is it?”

He’s curious to, and now word of a lie, but he won’t—

Thomas is, by nature, quick to overindulge. How many times had he spoiled his stomach, drinking from the dairy cows down the street, stuffing his face with apples in the orchard when he was sure no one would catch him? Even now, he scarfs down the contents of a tin in record time when he gets one.

What keeps him from having a taste of an officer’s brandy is a sense of duty, that is all, and Thomas can be glad to have so strong a sense for it.

“A shame to waste it,” he points out, rolling his shoulders as he sits upright. “That’s a good drop, there, and John’s barely touched it.”

“You have it, then,” Thomas smiles, holding the glass out like an offering. “I won’t tell.”

Edward beckons him closer with a crooked finger and a glint in his eye, making room for Thomas on his lap that he moves into with relish, a spot he’d like to mark as his, permanently. A spot where Thomas might recline like some beloved pet, as long as Edward will keep him – that is some part of what Thomas wants. He tips the glass against Edward’s lip, observes the workings of his throat and welcomes Edward’s kiss, a heady thing, made sweeter by the alcohol still on his tongue. It flows over into his mouth when Edward’s tongue expertly opens him up to it, burns as it goes down his throat.

“And the verdict?” Edward murmurs, glancing at him through hooded eyes, when he pulls away at long last.

“I wouldn’t know a fine from a foul one,” Thomas sighs. “But I liked the taste – more for the fine carriage it came in.” He traces his thumb over Edward’s lips, watches them part, watches something spark in his eyes. But as he shifts for better access, Edward pauses his movements, pulls Thomas palm to his lips and kisses that, before dropping it.

“Much too tired for anything like that tonight, I’m afraid.”

“Shame,” Thomas points out, wondering what Edward pulled him onto his lap for, then. Just to hold him, it seems, and isn’t that kindling to the little flame of hope he carries with him?

“That isn’t to say,” Edward continues, his own hand splayed rather broadly against Thomas’ navel, ready to make good on an offer yet unspoken, “That I would not take care of you, had you need of it.”

“You are tired, you said.”

“Could never tire of taking care of you, Tommy,” he tells him. Thomas tenses, minutely, curses his heart for such weakness. Edward pulls him close, cards his fingers through Thomas’ hair, almost reverently, hooking his chin over Thomas’ head as he folds the steward against him. “You don’t like the name?”

“I enjoy hearing it,” Thomas protests. Likes it quite a bit, in fact, too much, yeah?

Edward hums.

“Yet you tensed upon hearing it.”

For all the things that are oblivious to Edward, Thomas’ discomfort has always been starkly clear to the man, it seems. It hardly feels right to hear the man back so close to the edge of that immobilizing doubt, so he speaks: “You could turn a man’s head to strange fancies, when you speak to him thus, Edward.”

Edward’s hand pauses for a beat, picks up smoothly again, fingers walking down his back. “Strange fancies, you say?”

“Yeah,” Thomas sighs, nestling closer. “Very strange, veering towards the fantastical, bound to disappoint.”

“Might you tell me of these fancies?”

“I’m not sure I’d like that at all, Sir,” Thomas yawns.

“Only—” Edward starts, pauses, gathers himself anew. “I wish only to assure you of my affection, Thomas.”

And isn’t that a fine note to end an evening on? A fine man such as Lieutenant Edward Little, telling little old Thomas Jopson he harbours affections for him. The wording is deliberate, has to be, these high society folks place too much stake in their distinctions to make the mistake of confusing desires with affections.

“You doubt,” Edward whispers against his hair, poking him in the side. “You doubt me, Thomas Jopson.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, me.”

“Do you suppose,” Edward wonders, “That I make a habit of such intimacy after having seduced a man?”

“Was me what did the seducing, I should think,” Thomas protests, half-heartedly.

“While that may very well be true,” Edward continues, “I’ve reason to think you’ve enough experience of the things men may do with one another while at sea to know it does not, as a rule, include this.”

Thomas doesn’t quite know what to say to that, buys time by turning his face into Edward’s neck and kissing it. He teases a chuckle from the man, a delightful noise, but Edward will have an answer, it seems, for he takes Thomas’ hand in his, brings it to his lips.

“So, my dear Thomas, you needn’t tell me of your _strange fancies_ , if you do not want to, but I won’t have you dismiss them as such outright. Perhaps they line up rather neatly with some of my own.”

“Perhaps,” Thomas answers, breathless.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr can be found [ under Annabrolena ](https://www.annabrolena.tumblr.com)


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